No Fairy Tale
by GirlWhoLoved
Summary: When Sherlock comes home, he makes a terrible discovery that breaks his heart. Mild Johnlock. CHARACTER DEATH. Rated T because I'm paranoid.


**This is my first fanfiction. Please excuse any grammatical or spelling errors, I'm not a native speaker, but I'm trying my best. If you leave a review, you'll get a cookie.  
Oh and sadly I don't own Sherlock or any of its characters. They all belong to the BBC, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.**

~...~

Sherlock Holmes knew something was wrong when he found the door to 221B Baker Street slightly ajar. John would _never_ let the door open. Furthermore, he had been in the flat when he had left and there wouldn't be any reason for him to leave, especially as he had the day off and announced he wouldn't do anything the whole day. Sherlock had just answered smirking that that wasn't possible.

Cautiously he opened the door further and sneaked into the house he shared with John and Mrs Hudson. Apparently the old woman wasn't at home. Everything in the stairwell looked like it had when he had left.

"John?"

No answer.

He went further, step after step he climbed the stairs.

He knew it was highly irrational, but he almost _felt_ there was something wrong.

He reached the door to the flat. It was also slightly ajar. Now Sherlock was almost _sure_ something was wrong.

Taking a deep breath he pushed the door open and entered the living room. His heart almost stopped beating, at least it felt as if it was.

In the middle of the room there lay John Watson. The floor around him was crimson with blood.

It seemed to Sherlock Holmes as if the world had stopped spinning. It had to be some kind of sick joke.

Quickly he ran the last few steps over to John. Sherlock's eyes scanned the body. There was a stab wound where John's heart was, but no weapon. But Sherlock didn't care. The case didn't have anything appealing.

Suddenly all the emotions Sherlock had bottled up, especially those from the last few weeks when realisation had hit him but he hadn't known what to do, came crashing down on him.

It was as if he was the one who had been stabbed when he saw John on the floor. He didn't need to search for the pulse to know that he was dead. John's dark blue eyes had this blank stare only the dead had. This spark of life was missing. Gone.

For the first time Sherlock experienced what people meant when they said their heart broke into thousands of pieces. It was exactly what the detective's heart did now.

He wanted to scream, but no sound escaped his mouth. Instead his knees gave in and he sank down next to John, not caring about the blood. Slowly he reached out and closed the former army doctor's eyes.

Sherlock didn't notice he was crying until a tear dropped onto John's face. With the closed eyes the ex-soldier looked almost as if he was sleeping.

"John, wake up, tell me this is not real, wake up, John, please, for me, WAKE UP!"

He had lost the only person he had truly cared about. The person he loved. Yes, he loved John Watson. He had known all along, somewhere deep inside him he had, but he had never admitted it to anyone, he had hardly ever admitted it to himself.

"John, I love you, wake up. I… I need you to know! Please, John, please, wake up!"

Gently he pulled the limp body onto his lap and stroked the man's cheek. It was still warm, John wasn't dead for long. He barely registered this fact.

Suddenly he remembered a fairy tale his mother had told Mycroft and him when they were children. Sherlock hadn't really listened and he had considered it one of those facts it wasn't worth remembering. Hell, he had thought he'd deleted it already.

But there the story was. The prince kissing the princess that woke up from her long sleep.

Another fairy tale came to his mind.

Snow White, who was already in her coffin, considered to be dead. But she woke.

Before he knew what he was doing, Sherlock pecked John on the mouth. His lips tasted faintly like coffee, but also like blood, like death.

Nothing happened.

Of course not. What had he expected?

"Lies!" He screamed.

"What have you done to me, John? You're neither Sleeping Beauty not Snow White and I'm for sure no good, beautiful knight in shining armour. John, I'm far from that. Please, why don't you wake anyway? For me, please John, please wake up for me," He whispered, clutching the dead body of his only friend tightly. He sobbed quietly.

You're no knight or prince, Sherlock Holmes. If you were, you'd be good. But you aren't. You're self-centred, arrogant and ignorant. You wouldn't deserve someone like John Watson anyway.

Sherlock's thought were tearing him apart from the inside. Why hadn't he just stayed here? Why had he gone over to the morgue to ask Molly if she could get him some fingers soon for one of his experiments?

"John! Wherever you are, come back! Don't leave me here! John! John!" He screamed as loud as could.

Mrs Hudson dashed into the room. Apparently she had returned.

"Sherlock! What's- Oh my god!"

"He's dead, Mrs Hudson, he just left me here," Sherlock said. It sounded like an accusation. Maybe it was. Sherlock didn't know.

~...~

Moriarty. He should have known. A mobile phone and a note.

_Call me, Sherlock. JM_

Sherlock didn't. He had practically crunched the mobile phone under his foot. He didn't have the strength for anything now.

He had started crying again, Mrs Hudson handing him tissue after tissue, trying to sooth his pain while she was sobbing herself.

~...~

Days passed in a blur.

"You should eat something, Sherlock." Mrs Hudson was concerned, he knew it.

"It doesn't matter."

"You are killing yourself."

"Wouldn't be bad."

~...~

At last. A decision.

A few words to Lestrade, Molly, Mrs Hudson.

_I'm sorry. I just couldn't go on like this anymore, not without John. You have been right all along. I love John. I don't have anything to live for anymore. _

_I just hope I'll see him again. And if I don't and there's no such thing as an afterlife, it's just finished, but the pain would end. _

_I wish all the best to you. _

_I'm sorry._

_Sherlock Holmes.  
_

The next day, Mrs Hudson found Sherlock dead with cut wrists. He looked peaceful at last.

Although Mrs Hudson had cared a great deal about the two men, they had almost been her sons, she assumed Sherlock was happier where he was now, hopefully with John.

It did nothing to sooth her pain. She would miss them terribly, she would miss them denying they were a couple (well, at least Sherlock had finally admitted he had loved the doctor), Sherlock shooting her wall, him being indecently happy about another murder, the two men in her kitchen, drinking tea. She would miss _them_.


End file.
